On the banks of the Hudson I wept as I remembered Zion
I wept as behind me my sisters spoke of
how great it would be
to live in Chicago
And brothers looked to our captive’s towers, saying
“I will show my children their wonder,”
Their right hands broken
They sing, how they try
With tongues that cleave to the roof of
a blighted mouth, to chant the song of
The Lord on foreign soil
as Jerusalem wails
Shkhem mutters a curse, Elijah’s fire swirls from few lips, and fewer tongues.
And they look at me, grinning faces, shining behind the shackles so proudly displayed for every passerby
Their wooly eyes speak: “our handiwork is established, our homes are built of stone.” Each word twisted with linen.
They say the back of Moses was hunched, and he dreamt of a condo on the Upper West Side.
And what bright past carves for itself
A future of hypocrisy?
They say that past, past never changes, we bearers march forward under
A false flag of who we think we are
Forgotten truths hound a clouded mind
Like moths to a candle
Like drunks to the tavern
Like masses to the pulpit
Like knives to their throats.
And no one left to say I told you so
